All Things Left Unsaid
by Jellyfax
Summary: Romance between Holmes and Watson set after 'A Game of Shadows' CONTAINS SPOILERS    So Holmes isn't dead? But what does that mean for John Watson and will these two men ever truly face up to the way that they feel?
1. New Beginnings

All things left unsaid

"Mary? Who gave you this package?"

The sound of John Watson's voice echoed down the corridor as a figure dressed in extraordinary camouflage sprang up lightly from the armchair in the doctor's office. Chuckling to himself the figure pulled the cloth mask from over his face and shook out his dark hair. Sherlock had waited months for this opportunity, and he revelled in the fact that he could finally enact the next part of his plan.

"Oh Watson, did you learn _nothing_ from me?"

…

"Did he look strange, Mary?"

"Who, John? What are you talking about ?"

Watson ran down the stairs, slid round the banister and ran to the door. Flinging the door open he called out into the street,

"Holmes? Holmes!" he looked around frantically, but to no avail. "Holmes, you bastard …"

He sighed and turned back, Mary greeted him at the door.

"We all miss him my dear, but he is gone, and maybe it's time we let things lie. It'll be for the best."

Watson knew he was dead, but still things weren't quite right. He couldn't just "let things lie" like Mary could, he had loved Holmes like a brother and missed him terribly. People say time heals all wounds but that dull pain in his chest just wasn't going away. He had thought that after a few months he would stop expecting him to turn up on his doorstep or, more characteristically, in some obscure area of his house. He missed the sound of his violin at three in the morning and all of his stupid experiments. That jungle in his bedroom and all those ridiculous costumes … the costumes … but of course…

"How could I have been so stupid!"

He sprinted upstairs and into his study. Unsurprisingly it was empty. A cool breeze ruffled his hair, the curtains fluttered lightly. He shook his head.

"I never opened that window"

Oh Holmes …

…

Dusting himself off Sherlock smiled wryly, Other than the not so elegant clamber down from the window ledge everything had gone smoothly. He was going to enjoy toying with Watson. He would leave him a few clues, and then, just maybe, he would let him know for sure. Well, where's the fun in making it easy?


	2. An Apple a Day

_**Thanks for all the interest in the little teaser chapter I did, I hope this one is ok, if people like it then I'll continue writing. It will be multiple chapters but there may not be many (I may however write a follow-up connected story) Thank you!**_

**An Apple a Day**

Now, the fact that he had to type out the entire last page again was as much an annoyance to Watson as the fact that the question mark placed ambiguously at the close of his story. All it had achieved was the encouragement of yet more questions, more questions than that one solitary piece of punctuation answered. Only one thing was for sure; all was not at an end and nothing was as it seemed. Knowing Holmes the way he did John knew that he could no longer take what he was confronted with at face value. If Holmes was indeed alive then surely there was a reason for him not revealing himself straight away, whether it was due to error, absence, illness or just that once again Holmes was playing one of his many games. John sighed, naturally it would have to be the latter.

"True to form as always, Holmes." He muttered dryly.

"Darling what _was_ that all about?" inquired Mary as she entered the room, "and gosh John it's getting cold in here, is there really any reason to have this window open?"

She strolled over to the window and slid it down. It closed with a small click.

"What on earth is the matter with you?" she said softly as she placed her hands on his shoulders, "I thought you would be far more excited about this trip to Brighton, are you sure everything is alright?"

"Yes, yes, of course" he replied as he felt a small pang of something in his chest. Brighton. Holmes had said that he had always hated Brighton, which wasn't true, it had just been one of those experiences that one tends to regret, or at least one that John never wished another soul to know about. He shook his head slightly and smiled weakly up at his wife, "Of course".

…

If Holmes' sources were correct then John was to go to Brighton that very weekend so he had very little time to implement the next phase of his plan. Intricately designed he would have to execute it perfectly, timing and all. He would have to get Watson to remember, not that he had any doubt that he hadn't ever truly forgotten but a little reminder wouldn't hurt. Brighton had taught them both some very important things about themselves and while Holmes had taken them to heart, Watson seemed more reluctant. True, it had only been once, a one off … just once … one kiss.  
>Sherlock smiled to himself as he manoeuvred through the crowds, all he needed was an apple, that and a certain skill he had learnt off an old Chinese lady in Bruges, but that was another story. It seemed to have escaped Watson but for Holmes that night had meant more to him than any of the meaningless ones with fickle women, yes they had their intrigue and yes they were certainly nice to look at, Holmes had no qualms about that, but they lacked substance. Traipsing through the market the ragged man with the false nose hummed to himself. Brighton.<p>

…

It had been a windy October, not uncharacteristic for an English autumn but then things always seem windier by the sea. They had been following a lead that had led them to the Grand Hotel. As per usual Holmes had devised a suitably ridiculous plan to stake out a certain corrupt member of parliament, which just happened to involve renting out the honeymoon suite and drinking copious amounts of alcohol.

"Holmes, is this really going to help?"

Watson turned to Holmes who was sitting at the foot of the bed,

"Probably not, and who ever said this was anything to do with Sir William? I don't believe I mentioned a thing!"

"Oh Holmes, you ridiculous man! Look at the state of you, we've been here for hours and achieved nothing!"

There was a knock on the door. Holmes staggered to his feet, straightened his shirt, buttoned up his jacket and opened the door. Standing in the doorway was what looked like a large bunch of flowers with legs. A muffled voice from behind the flowers muttered something about the honeymoon couple and handed the flowers to Sherlock. Chuckling he closed the door and threw the flowers at Watson. They hit him square in the face.

"Urgh! Holmes was that really necessary? I dislike flowers, dead things being presented as some form of male chivalry. When do women ever give gifts to men. It has always seemed so one-sided to me."

He glanced up at the clock on the mantle, it showed quarter to twelve.

"How long have we been drinking Holmes? Don't we actually have a job to do?"

Holmes placed a glass on his head, and attempted to balance it.

"Indeed we do! Well then, let us depart!" he flipped his hat over the glass and opened the door. Watson sighed and massaged his temples gently. Drunk, Holmes was even more insufferable, this could only end in tears. Slipping on his jacket he followed Holmes out of the door.

"I feel awful already, what was that stuff?"

"I'm not quite sure, a suitably inebriated Irishman gave it to me…"

Sighing again Watson left the room, followed by Holmes.

"Now if I'm not mistaken he should be arriving at precisely midnight."

"And why would that be then?"

"Well, my dear, dear Watson" said Holmes, stopping suddenly and spinning round, "The man is a politician and as all the _most_ cynical men know, all politicians are naturally theatrical, how else could they lie quite so convincingly? Furthermore being a man of short stature and less than average looks, on top of the fact that his behaviour hints at being a middle child, he always needed something dramatic to get noticed as a child and he never quite grew out of it. Since this is supposed to be a secret meeting what is the most conspicuous time to hold said meeting?"

"Honestly Holmes, sometimes I think you make these things up"

Sherlock smirked and carried on.  
>They stopped at the front desk, a large wooden table with a bell and a bowl of fruit, and the front door was well within sight. Sherlock looked up to Watson, looked towards the bowl of fruit and smiled.<p>

"Holmes, what are you doing?"

"Just wait and see, be patient John."

Whipping out the pocket knife from inside his jacket he started to carve into the flesh of the apple. Watson frowned, what on earth was Holmes playing at?  
>He popped a piece of fruit into his mouth and handed the remainder of the apple to Watson.<p>

"Well since you hate flowers so much, this has potential life at least? And this time it is _you _getting a gift, I thought this was appropriate."

In Watson's hand was a fairly crudely carved rose. He blushed.

"Th..thank you... I suppose …" he coughed, "Well it doesn't do _much_ to break the stereotype, it's still a man putting the effort in."

Holmes smirked.  
>The door behind them clicked, Watson shoved the apple hastily into his pocket and Holmes put a finger to his lips. Sure enough, walking through the door was a stout man in a fur coat that was rather too large for him and a matching satin hat. He carried with him one small leather bag with a brass clasp, gripping it slightly too tightly in his podgy hand he gave a nod to a taller and significantly slighter gentleman to his left.<p>

"So that's his accomplice?" Whispered Watson. Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"No, that will be the middleman. Despite our tubby fellow's tendency for the theatrical it seems his business partner is far more shadowy."

Holmes and Watson watched on as the taller man disappeared into a room followed shortly by Sir William. Watson looked at his partner, he nodded and they both moved towards the door.  
>Now this was where it all went wrong. They were standing with their backs to the wall next to the door. Holmes took off his hat and pulled out a whiskey glass, he winked at John and placed the glass on the door. Sherlock's brow furrowed. Suddenly, no glass needed, raised voices could be heard. A few moments later there were footsteps, Holmes motioned Watson to back off, then threw himself into him and shoved him behind a nearby curtain. The door flew open and the politician stormed out.<p>

The two men were pressed tightly against each other, so close in fact that John could feel Sherlock's hot breath on his neck. His skin puckered and he shivered slightly. He looked up into his associate's face and blushed a little, he could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"I think they've gone." He whispered breathlessly, suddenly lightheaded. That confounded concoction must have been setting in. Holmes himself found his own pulse racing, his eyes flicked momentarily to Watson's lips. Breathing heavily he replied "I'm sure they have..."

Trailing off he leaned in closer and tentatively pressed his lips against John's. John closed his eyes, it was dark, he was so warm and it felt so safe...  
>That moment meant a lot of things to Sherlock, not least the summation of all his fears, there was definitely something there. That dull thud in his chest and the aching in his stomach. It was all falling apart, it couldn't be, it was wrong, so wrong.<br>Holmes pulled away violently, sweeping the curtain out of the way and storming off, mind and heart racing.  
>Watson stood stock still, barely able to breathe. The heavy fabric of the curtains pressed down on his chest as though they were made of stone. Whatever had just come to pass it was far from what John had expected from this trip.<br>Back in the room Holmes cursed himself for being so stupid, it had been just too much to have him so close. It wasn't that he liked men in that way, it wasn't appropriate, it was just Watson. That clever, stupid, handsome, loyal bastard...  
>"Damn!"<p>

...

Little was said after that, the two left early the next morning without much excitement. They left nothing to say that they had been there other than a handful of money given to the porter and a browning apple left on the side table.

"John I …" Holmes began. Watson shot him a cold look and the sentence died.

"Mr. Holmes, what happened last night is never to leave this carriage, it was an unfortunate and alcohol fueled mistake, I want never to be reminded of it. As far as I am concerned we never went to Brighton, in fact I hate Brighton!"


	3. Coming Out

**Gah! I'm so sorry this took nearly 3 weeks! It's not even a very good chapter but I hope you enjoy it anyway. I have another chapter half written so I shall post it next Wednesday and try and get one out a week. And for those of you who watched BBC Sherlock … it was so good I may have to start one for those two as well. Anyways **

Coming Out

There was a knock on the door early on Tuesday morning, fortunately John was working that day so was in to answer it. Stood on the door was a young man with a mop of blonde hair and a flat –cap. He looked up from a bit of paper he was holding and smiled at Watson.

"Mornin' Docta" he said with a cheerfully thick cockney accent, "Got your orda 'ere, 'and delivered by my own fair 'ands as requested. Do you need some 'elp getting' 'em inta the kitchen sir?" Watson shook his head.

Puzzled, he poked his head round the door to see a small crate with 'Egremont Russet' stamped on the side. Apples? When had he ordered a crate of apples, Egremont Russets at that! Why would they have been hand delivered, to his doorstep? What did apples have to do with anything?

The young man bent down and lifted up the crate, carrying it up the stairs to the front door,  
>"Got them seeds from the Earl of Sussex 'imself, we did. It's my old man who 'as the orchard see."<br>he smiled and nodded his head, "Thanks for your custom sir, enjoy 'em!"

The boy ran down the steps and down the street.

Bemused, John picked up the crate and lugged it into the kitchen. Getting his hammer he prised the nails out of the wood and lifted the lid. His heart skipped a beat. There sitting on top of a couple of dozen, large green apples was a small red apple with white flesh, carved intricately with rose petals. He turned it over in his hands, stroking the pulpy petals gingerly. Quite an improvement, he chuckled, not much like that mess you made in...he sighed and shook his head, placing it on the table. He picked up one of the green knobbly apples from the crate. He took a sharp breath and dropped the apple. Sussex apples, how could he have missed _that_. Oh God Sherlock. Painful tears welled up in his eyes and that crushing feeling in his chest returned with a vengeance. All these feelings were so confusing, he loved Sherlock as a brother, nothing more! He was a married man and he loved Mary with all his heart. He was sure of it, almost completely … almost…

"Darling." Called a singsong voice from upstairs, "John, darling please don't say you've forgotten about Cynthia Richardson's coming out ball. I know she is only my _second_ cousin but I feel we should be there, you're only a debutante once and it will be the last thing we have to go to before Brighton, I promise! Then I'm all yours."

Mary swung lightly round the bannister walking spryly to the kitchen, she stopped suddenly. Her smile faded as she saw her ashen-faced husband leant over the table in the kitchen. She approached him slowly.

"John, what's the matter?" she turned to the crate of apples next to him, "Apples? John you know I can't abide apples but …" she picked up the small red apple, "John, please tell me what's going on" she rubbed his shoulders affectionately. He shrugged them off and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve.

"It's nothing Mary and of course I haven't forgotten, I bought you that obscenely expensive dress didn't I?" He smiled weakly at her, she smiled back gently.

"Well we don't want them all gossiping about how little we can afford, you know how they felt about my mother marrying the way she did and they don't consider a Doctor much better, the obnoxious snobs." She giggled and took his hand, "Come on, we shall have some tea and scones and then go out to find Cynthia's gift."

…

The Richardson's London townhouse was a grand sight, and despite only being their refuse when away from the estate it was a fair sight grander than anything John could afford. The ceilings were high for a townhouse and needed to be for the sheer size of the chandeliers adorning them. He swallowed. A Doctor was a noble profession enough but to the upper classes working, in any form, was considered unnecessary. He loved Mary's parents dearly, however her extended family were far from welcoming, they weren't exactly aristocracy but they liked to act as if they were.

The Watsons had their coats taken and were ushered into the green room. There sat a group of middle aged women and a much younger woman with red hair. She looked just a few years older than Mary herself and smiled as they were announced. The men were sat at a table in the corner of the room, smoking. Mary sat next to her aunt and they were soon gabbling about the price of her royal blue gown, bought specifically for that one occasion. She had promised John that she would wear it again or at least get it tailored for everyday use. Watson sighed and stood by the fireplace. A footman offered him a whisky, which he took gratefully. To survive this evening he was going to need it.

…

The time passed painfully slowly as more and more guests piled in. Mary and the other women had been taken to see the debutante so John was stood in the company of several other equally as bored husbands and his glass of whiskey. Usually the prospect of a good game of poker would be enough to lift his spirits, however gambling had lost its charm of late. The room had filled with thick cigar smoke and the smell made him slightly lightheaded. The heady scent of tobacco was something John hadn't smelt for a while, he had given up smoking, it gave him little to no pleasure and the smell contained too many memories. The footman returned with another whisky, and therein lay his problem, alcohol was forgiving, he could sleep without those confounded dreams and somehow that feeling of self-loathing provided some comfort. He knocked it back and took another.

On his fourth glass the men were moved into the large dining room which was devoid of furniture and was providing the ballroom for the evening. The ladies in their respectively candied outfits stood around the edges of the room chattering amongst themselves. The chamber quintet was sat at the back and soon started playing, John downed his almost full glass, he wasn't nearly drunk enough for this.

Mary, beaming, came over to join him. "Oh John aren't you glad we came! You have some male company and Cynthia just looks divine." She had a glint of pure joy in her eyes that soon faded when greeted with a weak smile from Watson. "John, dear, I know things have been tough, but you haven't been in anybody's company since…since the funeral and I thought maybe you might enjoy it."

He sighed again and took her hand, "Mary, seeing you this happy is more than enough enjoyment for me. I just need a little more time." The song came to a close and a quick waltz began, "Shall we dance?"

He led her into the centre of the room and pulled her in closely. They spun around the room at a giddy pace, and soon the whiskey began to get to him. Things started to get a little fuzzy towards the end of the piece, he swayed slightly. Mary gripped his arm, "John, I think you may have over done it, I never knew you could dance like that, who taught you?"

Her words echoed around his head, who taught you to dance, who taught him to dance…

He staggered towards the front door muttering, "I need some air." Mary called after him, only to be interrupted by the announcement that Miss Cynthia Richardson was entering the room. She sighed, painted on her best smile and turned back into the room.

…

Watson was sat on the steps outside, his head cradled in his hands. He hadn't drunk that much, what had been in that whiskey? He could hear the noise from the party inside, the music and the applause. He had really let Mary down this time but he just couldn't stay in that room a moment longer. The pain in his head was only to be matched by the return of that same aching in his chest from that morning. Why did everything have to come back to him? Every little thing set him off, the slightest mention of his name … Sherlock. John cursed out loud and slammed his fist down on the steps.

"Now there's no need for that." said a familiar voice from behind him. John looked up and saw one of the footmen with a tray of empty glasses. His face was shadowed but it seemed familiar, more familiar, rather, than the footman from earlier. He screwed up his eyes and shook his head, the man sat down next to him. "You're in quite a state Doctor Watson, thank god you hadn't anything valuable on you." John looked up at the footman dizzily. His dark hair had once been held in place but was now covering half of his left eye and he wore a wry smile on his face. John furrowed his brow and looked again. The man in front of him bore a striking resemblance to a man he knew. He suddenly got very lightheaded and slumped forwards slightly only to feel a strong arm holding him back. "Woah there!" said the man, he propped John up again and muttered "That dose must have been a little stronger than I'd anticipated…or it could have been the whiskey…"

Watson came round a little and groaned, he lifted his head and looked again at the man sitting next to him. The man moved a piece of hair from in front of John's eyes and his concern softened to an affectionate smile. The whole street was spinning again, he flushed hot and his heart was racing, he shook his head groggily and slurred "Whichever bastard spiked my drink …" he breathed heavily and shut his eyes. As he started to black out again the man moved his face closer and nuzzled his neck slightly, "My dear Watson, look what a mess that confounded marriage got you into."


	4. A Rude Awakening

**So I thought, since the last one was late you could have this one early! Also I lost a lot of readers last chapter so hopefully you guys come back (please) I will hopefully be posting a chapter every Wednesday :) I'm sorry for the lameness of the chapters, I just needed some stuff out of the way before they can get better. Alons y!**

A Rude Awakening

The next morning John surfaced groggily, he propped himself up on his elbows and squinted and the stream of bright sunlight that had escaped a crack in the curtains. He could remember little of the previous night, he had dreamed of Sherlock again, that had become a common occurrence, it was usually that one moment played over and over again. That look he gave the moment before...

The door to the bedroom creaked open and Mary, with a toast laden tray, entered. She placed the tray down next to the bed and threw open the curtains. John groaned and pulled the covers over his head, he hadn't ever been this hungover. Mary took the covers from him and kissed him on the forehead , "You were quite a state last night, thank God that footman had the sense to bring you home rather than leave you out in the cold. You could've caught pneumonia the way you were dressed."

John groaned again and rolled over, he still felt sick and dizzy, that must have been some strong whiskey. Mary sat down next to him and placed a cool hand on his head, she sighed and kissed him again.

"You worry me sometimes John."

She got up and walked out leaving John to his thoughts.

He lay there for a few hours, head spinning. It hurt to try and remember, he just couldn't think what could have happened, it was all such a blur. When he finally got out of bed the tea and toast Mary had left on the side were cold. He went to the wash room and splashed his face with cold water. He looked in the mirror and pulled gently at the large, dark bags under his eyes. He looked ill, sad and pale, emaciated even. Sighing he made his way down to the kitchen. There was a note from Mary on the table, she had gone out for tea with friends. He filled the pot with water and poked the fire. Picking up a tea cup he sat down at the table, head in his hands. How had he got into this state? Hadn't he got everything he could want? Then maybe it wasn't what he wanted but rather what he needed that was missing. But what did he need? He just didn't know any more, he loved Mary but he ached for something, someone else...

The kettle whistled a shrill tune, interrupting his thoughts. Picking up a dish cloth he carefully removed the kettle from the fire and carried it over to the side. Just as he got to the sink he saw a figure standing in the doorway. He spun around to face the figure. His heart stopped. Standing right there in front of him was Sherlock Holmes in a strange suit coloured very much like Mary's embroidery chair. His unkempt hair flopped over one side of his face, his face had light stubble and his eyes had a warm glint that shot a cold shiver down Watson's spine. Suddenly John felt a searing pain down his right leg, he looked down.

"Shit!"

He had forgotten about the kettle in his hands and hadn't noticed dropping it, spewing boiling water down his shin.

Sherlock rushed over only to be met by a swift left hook from John.

"You bastard! You lying, sodding bastard! Shit!" He limped over to the table and sat down, "How dare you walk in here like that! Swanning back into my life as if you never left...I lost you, I mourned... I..." His voice cracked and he paused, "Just, get me a bowl of cold water and a dressing from the second right hand drawer."

Rubbing his bruised jaw Holmes complied. He knelt down next to John and lifted his leg into his lap. John winced as he lifted up the leg of his pyjamas. Sherlock soaked a cloth in the water and gently bathed his leg.

"I had no choice John, there was no other way." His hands were rough but their movements gentle. John felt his heart beat speed up, he must have been dreaming, this couldn't be real. He looked down at the man knelt at his feet, that stupid, ridiculous, wonderful man...God...he had missed him. Sherlock looked up and smiled warmly, he finally had Watson back in his life, he knew it had been difficult for him, he had watched over him, he couldn't help it. His best friend *had* mourned, terribly and it had torn him apart to watch when there was nothing he could do. He sighed and got up, he took a chair and pulled it up next to John.

"So..."

"So? Is that all you can say? So? I... I thought I'd lost you, my best friend! You were my life! You're so fucking unique, how could I move on from that? Was I just supposed to live a mundane life, have kids, carry on? Mary and I haven't...not since...I've been a mess!" He rubbed his temples, Sherlock leant over and took his hand, "What are you doing?"

He rolled his eyes and took a deep breath, "Watson, did you never notice, honestly? You are my best friend, my confidant, my fellow adventurer and conspirator." He ran his thumb affectionately over John's knuckles, "You were the only person who stood by me, the only one who really mourned my ...passing, so to speak." John cringed at the memory, he hadn't cried at the funeral, he hadn't mourned publicly at the front of the church. He sat at the sides, frozen, completely unable to speak. That total and utter feeling of loss. It wasn't until much later that the tears came, it was after that first dream. That moment replayed over and over in his head. Sometimes he almost craved it just to see his face again. The tears afterwards were almost worth it.

John shuddered, "What kind of games have you been playing? Why leave me notes, parcels, apples for Christ's sake! Why not just come out with it straight away?"

Holmes shook his head, "I'm truly sorry for the pain I've inflicted, but I had this facade, the last thing I wanted was for people to suspect and if you didn't know then it was the safest secret I had."

"I wouldn't have said a thing! You know that, or don't you trust me?"

Sherlock winced, that had stung, he trusted Watson more than anyone. He sighed again and took another deep breath, "If I had let him live, if I had lived as well … He would have killed you, you and Mary … I had to protect you John, I couldn't let you be hurt for the things that I did."

John looked at the man sat in front of him. That glint in his eyes, that mischievous smile of his, they were gone, he looked tired, older somehow.

They both sat silently for a few moments, John's mind was buzzing, all of this was for him? What did that mean?

"You would have killed yourself for Mary and I?"

"Haha! Never!" he scoffed, "I always have a plan remember?" he smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes, "I never wanted or expected you to see me, either I died or you did, I couldn't allow that ... I needed you to be happy."

His cold blue eyes were slightly warmer now, they bored into Watson. He felt that pang again, that pain in his chest that he craved. There was a question lingering in both their minds, neither really wanted to accept what the answer might be. Sherlock was rarely nervous, he had planned this but still his palms were sweaty and his pulse raised. He swallowed.

"John..."

"Sherlock, what is this all about? You've never been one to mince your words."

Holmes let go of his hand and looked at his feet, it had been a long time coming.

"John, you are my best friend but I've started to think of you in a way that isn't appropriate." John felt his heart stop, this wasn't happening, it couldn't be. "I used to love you like a brother, now ... now I just ... love you."

He looked up, John was stony faced, he couldn't look him in the eye. He stood up, winced slightly and walked out.

Sherlock sat completely still, he hadn't been angry but his silence cut deeply. He felt a few warm tears escape from his tired eyes. He shook his head and wiped his face with the back of his hand, he couldn't leave it like this, he wouldn't let this happen. He just had to find a way to bring him round.


	5. Forgiveness

**So guys, next chapter is here! It's a little short I know but I hope the content makes up for it. Hope you're all having a good week and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

Forgiveness

Watson could barely breathe, this couldn't be happening, he knew Holmes was an eccentric, sometimes sociopathic but this? He leant on the window sill, his breath clouding up the glass. He could hear Sherlock's footsteps coming up the stairs, he stood up straight, he was ready for this confrontation. No going back, no backing down.

The door creaked open and Mary walked in. Watson started to shake, it was all too much. He collapsed onto his knees and cried. Mary rushed over and knelt down by him, she held him, stroked his hair and whispered softly to him. She had given up guessing, grief did terrible things to people and this surely must be his way of dealing with it.

The two sat there for hours, after John stopped crying he was just silent, Mary talked at him but with no reply. This was so uncharacteristic of John, he was charming and sophisticated and strong willed …

He eventually fell asleep, he was emotionally and physically exhausted. Mary got him a blanket and a pillow and left him sleeping on the floor, she got up onto the bed and wept. Her husband was falling to pieces and there was nothing she could do about it. Damn that Sherlock Holmes!

…

Holmes was sat in his study plotting. He had got in through the window and Mrs. Hudson had no idea that he was there, she would have had a fit if she had. He lit his pipe and puffed on it a little, he had just about managed to keep off the opium, it called to his sore heart, practically singing to him, but he knew once he was in its grip there was no going back. No John. He had to keep a clear head formulate a plan. He couldn't give up, this wasn't the end.

…

John woke up in the early hours of the morning, it was still dark but he could hear the stirrings of morning, the bustling lamp lighters stifling the street lamps and the market sellers trundling down the cobbles with their carts of produce to be set up for just after dawn.

John walked over to the bed and lay the blanket over his wife. Bless her for her compassion.

The room was a little stuffy, the house a little too warm. John went downstairs and picked a coat up off the coat stand and slipped on a pair of shoes. Wrapping a thin scarf around his neck he left the house, closing the door quietly behind him.

London in the morning was cold and crisp. There was a dewy smell mixed in with the usually smoggy, musty smells of a big city. John headed towards Hyde Park, he loved taking a walk through London's bit of green, especially in the dusky twilight before dawn, it cleared his mind and calmed him in a way that nothing else could.

The park wasn't technically open so John took his usual route through the gap behind the large horse chestnut tree. He stood still for a few moments and breathed in deeply. There was a different smell here, a wet, cool, earthy smell. He smiled softly and walked on.

He had only been walking for a few minutes when he became aware that he was being followed. He tried to shake his stalker but eventually just stopped, turned around and said "Come on then! What do want?"

Out of the weak shadows cast by the watery morning light stepped Holmes. He smiled wryly and walked over.

"Oh for Christ's sake Holmes! You left me once before without any trouble, can't you just do it again?" He turned back around and carried on walking.

"No. No I can't." Holmes stayed perfectly still, he knew Watson couldn't leave without knowing.

Sure enough John spun around and walked back, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock, "You! You stubborn, pig-headed, unbelievable man! Why must you torture me this way? Are you even real or have I gone mad?"

Holmes felt hot rage bubbling in the pit of his stomach, after everything he was still questioning him, how could the man he once trusted with his life be so reluctant to believe that his best friend was alive?

"You aren't mad, but you're practically driving me to insanity! I. Had. No. Choice. I couldn't let him have you, I couldn't let him win!"

"Oh and here it comes! The real reason! Your over-inflated ego! How could I have thought for even a second..."

"This had _nothing _to do with my ego! This had _everything _to do with your life!"

"Oh don't give me that! You just couldn't resist that ultimate chance to show off, could you?"

"No, John, there is so much more to this! Can't you see? Otherwise why would I have done it? Why would I still be in hiding? Why have I chosen to come to you?"

"I don't know why! Why then Holmes? Why would you put me through all this, tear my marriage, my career, my Life apart! WHY?"

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

"John, I've already told you this, you are too important to me. I love y..."

"No!"

Watson's interjection left an awkward silence in the emptiness of the park. Holmes stepped towards him. "No..." his voice soften to a gentle plead. "Please..." Sherlock stood directly in front if Watson. "Holmes..." He stroked John's cheek affectionately. "Sherlock..." He leant in and placed his lips against his friend's.

Watson felt hot, fierce tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn't say no any more, he couldn't resist. He kissed Sherlock back and pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against his partner's. Sherlock wiped away the few remaining tears from his cheek with his thumb.

Holmes spoke softly now, almost whispering, "Now, please, can I explain. My dear, dear Watson."


End file.
